


Lying to You

by fictionisthebetterreality



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Death, Emotional, Grief, Grieving, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pain, Soulmates, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionisthebetterreality/pseuds/fictionisthebetterreality
Summary: The memories are the worst. Each is a blow, another strike. Each comes with its own feelings, its own soundtrack, images pouring forth from Jean’s treacherous brain like it wants him to suffer, wants to see him break under the pain and heartbreak.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been listening to Lying to You (Robotaki Remix) on repeat these last couple of days, and it really made me think of JeanMarco, and angst, so voila, here is the result.  
> Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated!

Early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, dust notes dancing and spiralling as they enter the beams, invisible once they leave.

Jean’s brow furrows, his dislike for early mornings showing even in his barely awake state, shadows rising and falling on his face as he turns and stretches, catlike, legs straightening, toes curling, arms pushing out, fingers reaching. His outstretched arm rests on the mattress for a minute, the only sound his slow breathing, the struggle not to fall back asleep a hard but necessary one.

He rests, eyes closed, thoughts drifting through his mind like the wind, quick to arrive, quicker still to breeze through and be forgotten. One hazel eye cracks open, the world appearing bleary and unfocused, the gentle sunlight glaringly strong on eyes that have been shut in darkness for so long.

Squinting, reaching a hand up and rubbing, Jean supports his upper body on one arm. Puts his arm back down, and sees the empty half of the bed next to him.

_I wonder where he-_

The pain is nothing like the wind. It is a sledgehammer, wielded by some unseen foe, delivering maximum brutal force to the weakest parts of him. His brain, previously functioning on half power, slips like a train derailed from the tracks. There is the pain, his mind a blank mess as the memory that caused it is wiped out by the sheer force of unhappiness. His entire being rejects it, the notion, the very idea of such a thing existing. His eyes squeeze shut, his chest caving, breaths coming out short and wheezing.  Hands curl into fists, legs draw up. He lays and pants, curled up in a shuddering pile of human emotion.

The memories are the worst. Each is a blow, another strike. Each comes with its own feelings, its own soundtrack, images pouring forth from Jean’s treacherous brain like it wants him to suffer, wants to see him break under the pain and heartbreak.

Freckles, always freckles. Freckles like starlight, constellations made human. Freckles on hands, on shoulders, on stomachs, on thighs, on straight cheekbones set below chocolate brown eyes. Smiles infused with laughter, with kindness, with understanding. Lazy afternoons spent outside, late nights spent inside, candlelit dinners and takeaways, easy going times and times so hard they nearly shattered apart.

_Breathe. In and out, again. You can do this, you got this._

He wants to scream. He wants to shout and cry and wail – _Why me? Why him? **Why him?**_

He doesn’t know the answer right now. Can’t think beyond trying not to crack. To creak and groan and fall apart like the mess he is, held together with a mismatch of duct tape and nails, of support and love.

Every morning is the same. He wonders when his brain will finally catch up. When the day will come he will wake up and not have that split second – that hope, that everything is the same, that nothing has changed. He wonders _if_ it will come.

_Breathe, come on now. Nearly there._

The pain is easing, somewhat. Not gone, never gone, but no longer crushing. He is learning to deal with it, body and mind adjusting to bear this incredible burden.

He’s heard people say that with time it gets better, the pain fades. He says it’s bullshit, all of it. Time doesn’t heal wounds, it just gives you the realisation that you will never be like you were before. That the you then is gone forever. You get used to being miserable.

Opening his eyes again, he quickly sits upright, swinging his legs out of the bed, back to the exposed white sheet on the other side. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, that in his sleep he’d go back to sprawling like a teenager, limbs akimbo, starfish pose. But no. His body hasn’t forgotten, still keeps to that one edge, like one day – it will all have been a dream.

Feet on the cold wood floor – he forgot to set a fire in the hearth. Again. Not like it matters, and the temperature makes him shiver, drags his mind out of the festering hell hole that opened up when one half of his soul got ripped away.

He stands, body on autopilot, walking into the small bathroom, twisting the lever set into the wall until a spray of water comes out the spout also there. It’s lukewarm, he still shivers, but it takes him two minutes to grab a bar of soap, lather up and rinse, then he’s out and getting dressed, fingers fumbling over buttons, still shaking whenever he ties the symbol of his position around his neck.

Fingers on the door handle, he pauses. Takes a breath. Squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. Pushing unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind – or trying to – he opens the door and steps out into the courtyard directly outside his home. It’s pretty empty, as he sets off, feet taking a route that still feels new, despite having travelled it for well over a year now. A couple people see him, nod, and shout greetings that seem unintentionally harsh in the still morning air. He nods back, lifts a hand. He knows most of them by name, the rest by face. It takes him five minutes to reach work, to ascend the steps at a quick pace, eager to get there, to get buried in his paperwork and responsibility, anything to give him a brief respite from the unending grief.

Another door opens, he walks in and is hit with a wall of noise. Of course, the top workers already here for the day, already cross referencing and researching and writing, chatter passed back and forth with the ease of old comrades.

He reaches his desk, a big old thing he has hated since he first set eyes on it, thinks it too grandiose for someone like him, just a simple town boy who grew up and made some decisions that landed him here, when he didn’t even _want_ it.

A man is already there, standing and scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, hair tied up into a tight professional ponytail. He looks up as Jean approaches, and smiles. It is not one of pity, nor of attempted understanding, but simply one that reads ‘ I’m glad to see you’. He hands Jean the paper, and he already feels better, knowing there are things to deal with, things today, things that he can do all day until he is so tired he passes out and has a dreamless sleep.

“Good morning Commander,” Armin says “We’ve got a lot to do today.”

**Author's Note:**

> https://fictionisthebetterreality.tumblr.com/


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